A Kind of Shame
by Taranova
Summary: "I hope you showed him you're nothing close to being a victim." Roy was shamefully late. Roy/Ed, character death.


_"I'm not letting you out of my sight, Fullmetal. You want to chase these fuckers, fine, but not when they're targeting me, and in turn targeting _you._" _

_"Stop with the goddamn protective act. After what that son of a bitch said about you - damn it, you can't think I'd just let that slide." _

_"I'm not asking you to forget. I'm asking you not to be a complete idiot." _

_"You just don't want to lose your fuck toy." _

The rain soaked his clothes, turned them soggy and damp until the cotton threads started to unravel in the cave of his military jacket. The air stirred with the faint trickle of spring, the river shimmering under casino lights as though of a different universe: parallels between the familiar and unfamiliar, yesterday and today. The slippery tide stones were like fat greased mirages, delicately scratching against each other as men walked across in a search party.

Roy put his cigarette against his lips, and drew in a hard, bittersweet breath. Poison shrieked through his insides, choked his lungs and his heart, and he felt his muscles start to tremble. He exhaled in a foggy stream of smoke and condensation. The river ran cold, fine mist striking the ripples. He looked up at the casinos, heard people on the bridge, looking down on the investigations proceedings and felt his blood harden into ice.

They weren't looking for the kid, they were looking for entertainment.

"Colonel!" A voice called from the edge of the river bank. Roy looked up at the soldier, found a slick black rain jacket dripping with water and a pair of eyes reflecting a thousand searching flashlight beams. "I think I've found something!"

Roy nodded, said nothing, and let his cigarette fall between the loose stones. The orange-red glow of the starry tip went out in a fizzle. The soldier knelt on the mossy rocks, a human sized lump becoming apparent the closer Roy drew. It was covered in some kind of black plastic tarp, a decidedly fishy smell evaporating in the chill of the night air. "What is it?"

The soldier wouldn't say. His lower jaw was shaking, either from the cold or from unspoken fears. "I'm not sure, sir."

Roy nudged him out of the way, collapsing to the rocks and cringing as they cut into the weak fabric of his pants. Blood seeped from a new hole in the knee, but he paid no attention, going to the tarp lump and keeping as silent as possible. It was as though he were afraid of the dark; a ridiculous paradox he was unaccustomed too.

He pulled the tarp back an inch, and stopped. One inch was all that was required. He closed his eyes, pressing the lids so tight together he felt them pushing to the back of his skull. Rainwater danced down across his face, though perhaps that was only the result of his tears. He damned them, then picked up his communication radio. He hesitated for a moment, staring at the limp lock of sand clumped gold hair, and then confirmed the worst.

"Well," the voice on the other end said softly, "that's a real, real shame. He was a good kid. Bring him back to forensics. We'll take care of it."

Roy watched the rain splatter hard on the ice-cold, pale face, no oxygen seeping back to breathe life into the body. "Yeah," he stuttered out, fingers freezing on the radio. "Over." He turned it off, released it so that it clattered and broke on the ground. The soldier's protests were drowned out as the rain picked up force. Gale winds swept across the river, water climbing in tiny waves.

He reached forward, brushing back the plastic tarp and throwing it off the stiff figure. Water clung to a dark sweater, dark jeans, torn and blood stained unmistakably. Everything reeked of mildew, decay, underwater scents that were all two or three days old.

He had promised it would be an hour, no harm done. And now what was left to find? His flesh was slippery and cold, as though the river had turned him into a fish because he could no longer breathe sweet air and sunshine. Roy could see his eyes through the thinning lids: hollow and wide and the pupils dilated, black spots that ate up what remained of the sunkissed gold. "I told you I'd find you." He managed to whisper, smiling and reaching forward to stroke a paper white cheek.

He was gentle.

"I know I'm a little late, Ed. But you have to admit." He winced, eyes closing briefly as he savored the memory of touch. He was three days late to be exact. Cold teardrops of rain stung his fingertips and trickled down his wrist. He wasn't so soft as he used to be, didn't have that heavenly appeal, didn't have the warmth he was attracted to. "You weren't always on time, either."

"Colonel," the soldier spoke up, somber eyes taking a sympathetic turn. "I'll leave if you-"

"Please. Please go."

"Ah - okay. Okay."

Roy listened to his footsteps on the rocks, then as they disappeared, got closer to the tarp bed. He carefully pulled up the smaller body, holding it against his chest. Water stained copper red dribbled down his uniform and inside his pants, squirming uncomfortably there. "Three days is a long time." He agreed with the sound of silence, nodding his head. "Too long, I think. For God's sake. I guess I just wasn't looking hard enough."

He stared at the teen's lips, slightly parted and discolored, and remembered kissing them in the past: when they were soft and warm and sweet with longing. He pretended to hear the words never spoken.

He laughed. "I hope you gave him hell. Tore him to shreds, showed him that you're nothing close to being a victim. Because you're not, Ed." He choked back a sob, started rocking back and forth and pressing the body so close he could hear the crack of dead limbs. Wet, stringy gold hair clung to Roy's forehead, and he breathed in what remained of the honey autumn scent; it was there, but hidden under the squeamish dark matter. "You're not."


End file.
